A quarter of a century ago
My father died.
Someone telephoned at 2 am
That he had gone.
Some points are marked in time
Like gigantic obelisks
On the flat plains
Of all the everydays
That pave our lives.
He had no outstanding wisdoms
But he was kind
And he cared strongly
About the world
And about me.
We did not look too much alike

But, just last night,
He looked at me
From out my bathroom mirror.
He seemed as startled as me.
I miss him.